Out Of Reach
by Mr Toulouse
Summary: One-shot, Katie/Ginny. "You never touch me, you know? ...Like you fear that the contact would burn you."


_Author's Note : I've wanted so badly for a while to write a Katie/Ginny fic, so when this scenario came to mind yesterday amidst my insomnia provoked stirrings I couldn't help but immediately write it up. I'm doing this more for myself really, since I don't know how many other people have so much as even, for the slightest moment, thought about this pairing. However, I do hope that if you stumble upon this story that you'll enjoy it nonetheless for it's choice of pairing._

_Also, to those who read _Inverse Effects_, I'm sorry that there hasn't been any recent updates. I assure you that I'm working on another short for it as we speak, I just have to work out some stuff._

_I suck at titles._

**Out Of Reach**

You never touch me, you know?

I just realized it myself, how you always stay a safe distance away from me. Like you're a magnet, repelled by me; or maybe more like you fear that the contact would burn you? I can't quite place what is it, that look in your eyes, but it's like there's something about me that puts you ill at ease.

The first time we met properly, during my 6th year, I tentatively held out my hand as I introduced myself, but you didn't return the motion as you introduced yourself in turn and my hand was left awkwardly held out between us.

Not much later that same year, I welcomed you as a new member of the Quidditch team by giving you a quick pat on the back. You recoiled at my touch and turned an empty - no, lost - gaze my way. This left me puzzled, as you seemed to embrace the congratulations of all your other new teammates with large smiles and a warm giggle.

After hard-earned victories on the Quidditch field, the locker room is always abuzz with ecstatic exchanges of praise, the laughter of relief, and salutary hugs shared between worn out but pleased athletes. However I never receive such a hug from you, only a very distant sounding : _"Good game, Katie"_ still with the same lost look in your eyes as you walk past me before going on to hug whomever happens to be standing next to you just then.

I've tried to rationalize your aversion to contact with me. _You're just intimidated by me_, I tell myself, _it's because I'm older than you_; but I'm not fooling myself. You're a very physical person, I noticed, and have the habit of playing with others' hands or brushing their hair in the most innocent of manners as you're conversing. You probably don't even notice, but you're constantly pawing people, upperclassmen included. Just never me.

Then I think that, maybe, just maybe, you feel hatred for me. Yet ask anyone and they'd testify that we were friends; to some degree, anyways. Besides, if you felt contempt for me, I don't believe that avoiding my touch would do much to dissuade me from being around you, no? There's also that look in your eyes, I've pointed out the one, it speaks of no hatred - confusion, maybe, but nothing more.

After that all my theories fall into the category of ridiculous in their surrealism : maybe you're allergic to me, maybe I actually let off some sort of supernatural vibes that repel you, or perhaps I'm possessed by a demon and when you set your sights upon me you see only it? But this is all in the realm of the impossible, bordering on the obscene.

I have one more idea as to what it might be, but I'm always quick to banish it as another of those absurd thoughts.

It's the end of another Quidditch game now, and the locker room is filled with the usual clamor following a win. I see your fiery red hair making it's way to my end of the room as I pull away from the hug I was currently in - I'm not sure whose, though, everyone comes and goes too quick in their elation - and make my way towards you to hear the few, sorry words I know you'll have for me. You stand before me, your eyes immediately dropping to your feet as you prepare to say the too often repeated phrase I know is on your mind.

It never has the chance to go beyond a thought, though, as I briskly grab the front of your Quidditch robes and pull you into a short kiss, but one that I knew could not be mistaken for an accident or a friendly peck. All the while, that single, banished, theory is on my mind and I hope that it wasn't wrong. I pull away and look into your eyes, no longer looking lost, but wide opened. Not from revulsion or shock, but in fear : not the sort that usually stems from disgust of receiving a kiss from a person of the same sex, but one from the thought of being discovered.

I bite my bottom lip and put on a lopsided grin then as it's all I can do from letting out a boisterous laugh.

Ginny Weasley, I've finally got you figured out.


End file.
